


We were born alone

by wlan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Reincarnation, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wlan/pseuds/wlan
Summary: He never thought that Bergamo would make him so small, that he would feel so helpless, so insignificant, in the sweet, rural, little Bergamo. There was something in those wide streets and those dark lanes, in their steep slopes and all their plains, there was something in their people, in the light that illuminated the cobblestones, in the countryside, in the flowers. No matter how many times he would have been told so, Yusuf would have never thought that neither the old nor the new Bergamo would be able to make him dissipate as if he had never existed.Though to be honest, Yusuf never thought anything or anyone would have made him disappear."Let's go. You have three years to learn Italian."The search of a man who is destined to love another man of whom he knows nothing but stories of shared past lives.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 51
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First attempt to write in years and English is not my native language, so please be kind :) But this idea struck me as so did these two immortal warriors husbands so here we are.
> 
> Big shoutout to @[softestark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestark/pseuds/softestark) who is the most adorable creature on Earth and who had given me the courage to go on with this. Go check out her profile cause she has the most wonderful fanfics ever.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

He never thought that Bergamo would make him so small, that he would feel so helpless, so insignificant, in the sweet, rural, little Bergamo. There was something in those wide streets and those dark lanes, in their steep slopes and all their plains, there was something in their people, in the light that illuminated the cobblestones, in the countryside, in the flowers. No matter how many times he would have been told so, Yusuf would never have thought that neither the old nor the new Bergamo would be able to make him dissipate as if he had never existed.

Though to be honest, Yusuf never thought anything or anyone would have made him disappear.

_Let's go. You have three years to learn Italian._

He had prepared himself long before he started dreaming about him. He had prepared himself as a promise to finally fill an incomplete life, being one of those who cling to the most useless of dreams because they happen to know that it is what it is, and that's it. He had prepared himself before he began to see that smile slipping into his dreams, that smell strengthening his insides, those unreachable eyes looking at him closely while letting out a...

_Yusuf..._

Yusuf woke up with a muffled scream and the learnt automatism of having one hand under his pillow holding on to his gun.

The only reliable proof that he still managed to get some hours of sleep were all those sudden awakenings after hearing that rusty voice. As fast as he opened his eyes that unknown smile dissipated in the morning light – his aroma remained for a bit, though, bothering the last bits of his imagination and then disappearing in the quietness of the room. On his bedside table, a thousand of sketches of a face that was always changing its expression, with features too inconsistent to know if all that was real or not, if it was nothing but the purgatory of a punishment that he could not remember.

Yusuf stood up, not making a pretense this time of taking the notebook and trying for the umpteenth time to reflect the image of a man who already belonged to the realm of the dreams. He put his hands to his face trying to return to a reality that no longer felt like one. He had been living in Bergamo for six months now and his body didn't remember what his life was like before. Or well, how his life was like before _before_. He uttered a small insult to the ceiling and smiled bitterly as the Italian word embroidered the silence of the room. This damned language had ceased to be an issue long ago and it almost seemed as if Italian belonged to him more than the entire culture he had left behind.

_Let's go._

Yusuf had made a series of routines his own in which he did no longer recognize himself. The exercise session just after he woke up. The cold shower afterwards. The morning black coffee. Planning lunches, dinners. Always having the most important things in a backpack, because it was never known when it would be time to disappear again. Smiling and talking to strangers who would never go past being that - _strangers_. Being alone, being alone, _being alone_. And the sleep in fits and starts, no longer being able to recognize dreams and realities, promises and condemnations, stories and legends.

_You have three years to learn Italian._

If anything Italy had brought him, it was the smell of coffee. With his hair still soaked and the drops defining his curls until he died in a classic white Italian shirt, Yusuf looked skeptically at his boss' message on his phone.

"Don't worry. He'll turn up."

The gurgling of the coffee machine drowned out the clicking of his tongue, as if the Universe was telling him that he had no reason to complain, that he was about to fulfill his destiny. _Fuck my destiny_ , fuck the Universe, fuck that distant, unknown, unattainable smile that apparently did not have in mind to get in his way in the simplest and easiest way for everyone. Fuck to be the one to search, the one to wait, the one to...

_Crave._

_\- You know better than that, Yusuf._

_\- No, boss, I don’t fucking know. Cazzo!_

_A half smile, undefined._

_\- You'll know._

With the taste of coffee still in his teeth, he went out one more day to the streets of Bergamo, the same streets that appeased him and made him invisible, where he could walk through its avenues and alleys without anyone turning around to see him. Not that he was complaining, either – in order to find his target he had to become a ghost. Or that is what Andy taught him to be. It was still surprising how easy it was to be a ghost in that town. Perhaps it was somewhat to blame that it was the first time in three years that Yusuf was completely alone at his ease; perhaps it was even the first time in his life that he was. Perhaps he suddenly felt the immensity of his surroundings upon him, perhaps he was riddled at times with the fear of meeting him and not finding him in him.

And the fear grew as he unsuccessfully looked for him. He had been to all the places where Andy had suggested he might be. _Look at the hospitals, he's always had a thing about healing and helping others and all that shit._ Accessing the staff at the main health centers in the Bergamo area had been easier than he had thought. After a few visits to the hospital where he had located the personnel offices and their computers, he checked the dates of birth one by one of all the men hired including the temporary ones who appeared day by day and disappeared on the lists again. The results had initially been promising, but after sending the names to Booker so that he could get the photographs of all of them, he had received a categorical and hopeless nay from his two colleagues.

 _Look at... in parishes and church centers and stuff. You know, the past always comes through._ Sometimes he wondered what his parents would say if they had seen him swallow so many Christian masses - because there were many churches in any Italian town, many. Punctually, he went every day to one of them, or maybe two, repeating on different days so as not to be recognized. He quickly learnt about the priests, the choir members, the maintenance staff and visitors, without anyone drawing their attention especially. That smile, the one than pursued him in his dreams and in all that photos seems to be anywhere to be found.

 _Take it easy, Yusuf. We still have a lot to look for. Try the military. Or the carabinieri. Discipline, the dichotomy of good and evil, that's in him too._ But Booker had it more under control than he did, going through all the agents of the state forces every day, without recognizing him among so many people. Even so, Yusuf integrated into his routine a walk through the districts of various police stations, recognizing the pairs of carabinieri that were patrolling each area in each time zone. He was surprised to envy the complicity in the duo, the harmony in the coordination, the knowledge of being protected by someone he could trust forever. It had been so many months now listening to so many stories about the man and his smile that he did not know if the thing he felt inside him was the residue of everything he had experienced or the projection of an unreal and desired fiction.

 _Civic centres?_ No. _NGO, charities?_ No, no. _Veterinary clinics?_ No, no, no.

"I don't think he’s gonna show up, guys. At least not here."

He put his cell phone in his pocket and put on his sunglasses. It was Sunday and he was not looking for anybody today – he was heading off to the only routine he kept for himself, attending a game _of anything_. And as sportsman as he was he did not complain that much of having to change between sports and crowds each week in order to not be recognized, but if only there was one thing he enjoyed was football – for it was Italy. And of course, football, not Atalanta's football, but the one that boiled in the surrounding stadiums, that of the plastic chairs and referees on trial, that of the mud and the asymmetrical equipment. The sweat, the roar, _the battle_.

It was Sunday but it was football Sunday so, defeated by the lack of results, he fell on a concrete stand and took one of the buttons of his shirt off. The glowing mid-morning sun of September was loosening up but still it was a long way till winter. He was exhausted even if he had just woken up. It was Sunday and he didn't want to look any further, he just wanted to go back to his old routines, forget about everything, forget about Italy, the masses and the smell of hospital, forget about Andy and everyone.

_Let's go. You have three years to learn Italian._

It was Sunday and, of course, he finally showed up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this and for all the kind love <3  
> And again a big shout out to @[softestark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestark/pseuds/softestark) for having betaread this. She is the bestest!

_\- Let’s go. You have three years to learn Italian._

Ahmed always had the urgent and desperate feeling of wanting more.

_\- Excuse me?_

_\- Come on, Yusuf, there's no time to lose._

_\- Yusuf? What, I'm Ahm-_

Three years had passed and Yusuf could hardly remember the Ahmed that he once was. He had heard so many stories about himself during those three years that Tunisia seemed like a distant memory, another one of those stories that Andy and Booker told him over dinner. Like that story about the time when Yusuf had been a Dutch court painter. Or that other time when Yusuf had been obsessed on trading silk. Or that time when Yusuf had been born in America.

 _The time when Yusuf had been Ahmed._ Yusuf hardly recalled the Ahmed that he once was. That Ahmed was born and lived in Tunisia, always with the urgent and desperate feeling of wanting more without knowing how to get it. He was an Islamic man and a pianist virtuous by family devotion, traditions that he loved and hated at the same time but that he had never disrespected in his 30 years of life. He was also a composer and a guitarist because that was the closest thing to being a poet nowadays. And if he majored on Art History it was because he had paid for it out of his own pocket while working as an assistant in the central market downtown.

_\- And how did you find me so quickly?_

_\- Son, you made it very easy for us. Artist and merchant, it's not like you were hiding._

_\- But it was that YouTube video. - Booker added._

_\- Oh, yeah. It was definitely the YouTube channel._

_Yusuf drowned an insult in his glass while the other two laughed._

They had found him in an alley, carrying a box of oranges while whistling some random song he had just come with. He was taken by surprise on a random Tuesday before the streets woke up, sweat running down his back and a verbal command that left him stunned. He was taken by surprise, but Ahmed had nothing to do with the efficient Andy. The last memory the streets of Tunis had of him was the trail of oranges rolling on the ground.

When Ahmed woke, he found himself tied to a chair in what seemed to be one of the many rooms that could be found anywhere in North Africa. Watching him carefully was a blond man, sad face but restless eyes, his computer to the side and his attention directed at him.

\- Boss, he's awake.

Ahmed’s gaze managed to focus on the man and woman and he surprised himself thinking that perhaps he wasn't going to die. His heart began to slow down as if he were at home and all his muscles relaxed at once in such a remarkable way that the two strangers noticed and smiled contentedly.

\- Hi, I'm Andy. And the Frenchman sitting there is called Booker. We're big fans of you and your YouTube channel.

That's where it all started. With a laugh that Ahmed didn't know where it came from but that seemed to have been trapped in his body for centuries eager to be released. Andy had a way of knowing him without knowing who he really was that mesmerized him. However he had resisted to believe at first, his logic overcoming his instinct - he thought he had been kidnapped by a couple of psychopaths who did nothing but talk about past lives, future lives, about someone he had yet to meet.

_\- One more time. Please._

_\- You were born in 1066, Yusuf. You were a merchant. You went to war like so many others, completely convinced of it so you wouldn’t think too much. And you died at the hands of your soulmate._

_\- And we were resurrected._

_\- You were_ reborn _. We think that's the more appropriate term. - Andy already had a cracked voice, but she was patient. – Boker and I resurrect, you are reborn. We think it's because you two were created at the same time and you don't possess as much strength as we do to resurrect on the spot._

_\- But we heal quickly._

_\- That's right. You two heal faster than any other human being. We heal fast enough to beat death so we can resurrect. You heal fast, yes, but sometimes not fast enough and death is quicker so you die. And at that very moment you are conceived somewhere in the world._

_\- Conceived rather than born. - Yusuf half smiled._

_\- That is what I said. Pregnancies are not that accurate, Yusuf. That's why it's hard to track you. If you were born at the same time you died, you would be much easier to find. But you don’t. And searching for everyone born within 3 months or so around the world is tedious. Tell that to Booker._

_\- Uh-huh. But we dream of each other, and that makes things easier, doesn't it?_

_\- Usually. - Andy took a long drink of water. - We start dreaming of you and you start dreaming of us right at the age you were killed the first time, which is when you stop growing and become... well, when you become almost like us again. When you_ wake up _again. We usually find Nicolò first since he wakes up 30 years after his last death. And for you it’s about 33 years of waiting, and we don't like to wait for that long. This time was easy and we found you before you woke up, though._

_\- Is Nicolò here already, then?_

_\- No, he's not._

_\- Why not?_

_\- I already told you that’s for another time, Yusuf._

Ahmed always had the urgent and desperate feeling of wanting more. Maybe that was the reason why Ahmed stopped being Ahmed so soon and started being Yusuf without hesitating or regretting the life he was leaving behind. It had helped to see them rise alive after being dead, of course. Or the wielding of a scimitar that became familiar at first contact. Or seeing his body adapt perfectly to the dynamics of battle, even though he had always been a man of the arts with little intention of fighting another human being. Or hearing all those stories they recall and having the feeling that he smelled them, felt them. But above all, it had helped the constant figure of that Nicolò, that Nicky they missed, the one in their stories that they told at night when they had stopped being the army of three and had become a family of centuries. That Nico who made his heart beat in a special way through photographs and paintings - the two of them always together, close, _united_.

_\- It would help if he was a woman, though._

_\- Don't be a child, Yusuf._

Yusuf _woke up_ a few months later, just when Andy and Booker had prognosticated. He dreamt of Andy and Booker in their rooms so clearly that when he woke up he was surprised he wasn't in the room with them. Andy then appeared with a dagger in her hand and, as always when it was about Andy, he was taken by surprise when she made the wound in his forearm. _Now sleep._ In the morning, the wound was gone.

 _-_ I couldn't risk it, you know. We never know when all this is going to… stop being like this. And it would be unfair to take you with us if you were not like us.

Yusuf understood things halfway, but he always had the feeling that he agreed with her. That was when Andy handed him the letters. There were letters written in Yusuf's own handwriting without he never having written them, and they told exactly what Andy and Booker had told him - they asked for patience and serenity. And then there were other letters written in Italian and in another handwriting, which promised him things he didn't understand but whispered things that penetrated his inner self.

_\- There's a good chance that Nicolò will be reborn in Italy. Or... well, you've always spoken to each other in Italian, it's important that you learn it._

They started to take some missions by then. Yusuf was always in the rear, protected from top to bottom, all the team making sure that his protection was no more at risk than some scratch from the battle, some broken bone or an improper explosion that would heal in a few hours at most. Neither Andy nor Booker could afford to wait another thirty years for him, especially now that Nicolò was about to wake up.

When life was quite they looked for Nicky but it had been extremely difficult to locate him without some clue. So they had it as a pastime when they didn't want to think too much and they would look through photographs from the Instagram or newspaper reports, through the crowd at big masses or when there had been a global disaster. Always hoping that he would stay alive all these years until he woke up again.

Yusuf had asked to hear all of Nicolò's stories over and over again. And Andy would relate them the times they were needed for they were part of his History, even though Booker would roll his eyes each time love saved another day. They told him about how they first killed each other in the battle and how 33 years later they started dreaming about each other again, only to find each other to kill him as if it were a divine punishment. 33 years after their second death, Andy and the other ones were able to stop them in time and avoid it. They had to die some other time to realize that they were not like the others at the same time they were like them, and they had to die at enemy hands some other time to realize that living without the other one was extremely difficult.

_\- Usually you two die at the same time. You can't bear to be in a world without Nicolò and you have that agreement. Dying at the same time. There was a time he died and you decided to wait for him all those 30 years until he woke up again and well... you held out for three months. - Andy snuck a laugh. - Booker made a killing on that bet._

_\- Very funny._

_\- So Nicky had to wait three months longer than usual for you. And then you decided to make the pact that you'd die at once and it is Nicky who waits three years, who picks you up and who teaches you everything._

_\- But Nicky's not here now._

_\- No, he's not._

He had learnt to know this Nicky. The Nicolò who kept the group sane, who still made them embrace the humanity that sometimes slipped through their fingers. The Nicolò who, despite the times, civilizations and cultures, was always capable of rescuing good from evil, of fighting for what was fair, of curing the incurable, of protecting the unprotectable.

He learnt also about their last story. It was the end of the 1980s and they had dedicated themselves to help in the many guerillas that exploded all around the globe. Yusuf and Nicolò stayed in the base village of whatever continent it was, tucking in orphaned children, healing war wounds, accompanying people who were about to die, while Andy and Booker went into battle to try to contribute something in an untenable situation, always just the enough time to not make a dent or a name in an increasingly connected world.

The last Yusuf had died in crossfire and the last Nicolò saw him die for the first time in that life. They had not died for two centuries, two centuries of living together, two centuries of being for each other and sharing all the stories they had been told about their past selves. They had fled from there after burying Yusuf.

When it was Nico who died, Yusuf took his own life without thinking twice, convinced that a life was not worth living if Nico was not there. When it was Yusuf who died, Nico plunged into the deepest of contradictions.

This time he had decided not to kill himself. He felt that the world was getting worse and worse and he felt completely stupid for being selfish enough to disappear from the map for thirty years until he could return and meet Yusuf again. Andy told him that he would give him three years - that after those three years, he would kill himself and be reborn at the same time, for that was their destiny. Nicolò accepted.

_\- I don’t know how he endured._

It was three years of extreme solitude during which Nicolò wrote letters in Italian to a future Yusuf, telling him things he would have told him while cuddling at night. Deciphering the truth of the Universe or explaining the flavors of something he had just tasted. And he thought he could wait for him like that for another thirty years, wait for Yusuf to wake up and then read those letters to him and tell him everything that they had lived through these last two hundred years. Show him how much they had loved each other. And in the meantime continue to help on the edge of the battle, to assist and to do his duty.

Andy would never forgive herself for not having anticipated the informant's betrayal, the blood spilled, Nicolò's death six years after Yusuf's. Andy and Booker were alone again.

_\- As he died, he was only able to repeat two damned sentences._

_\- Which ones?_

_\- That you had to learn Italian and read his fucking letters._

Yusuf remembered the smile on those photographs and the handwriting. Ahmed's urgency and despair had given way to something much deeper in Yusuf - the crave of finally meeting his destiny.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading :)  
> And thank you to @[softestark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestark/pseuds/softestark) for being such a sweetheart and having checked this before posting it ;) Go check her profile for awesome fics!!

_It was Sunday and, of course, he showed up._

The referee had just gone out onto the pitch to greet the captains and to remind them of the minimum standards of conduct to follow during the match. Yusuf could say by heart the names and other jobs of the referee and his assistants. _God_ , Yusuf even knew the captains of each team, some of the players and even some of the spectators, because he had come to Bergamo to observe and he had been doing a thoroughly job. But what he could not anticipate was the feeling of extreme abandonment when a blond man with tempting smile, alert eyes and a body ready to attack came out onto the field.

That was the first time Yusuf saw Nicolò in his life. In this life, at least. And all the doubts he had ever had about having seen him and not recognized him were dissipated into the midmorning breeze.

Nicolò was wearing an absurdly large T-shirt and the name on the back ridiculously but adorably crossed out with two strips of duct tape, so Yusuf's suspicions that he was a newcomer seemed to be correct. It was extremely difficult to hear his name from the stands even if they were half full and no one seemed to have noticed the newcomer's presence, so he could not get how this stranger was called.

He pulled out his cell phone to get a video so he could send it to Booker so he could look up for this new Nicolò, but he stopped on the way. They had already started playing. The camera's zoom on his cell phone allowed him to see the earring hanging from his left lobe, dark circles under eyes full of energy, the increasing breathing against the wide shirt, legs of pure steel. Yusuf recorded a video that he would not share with anyone -at least not for now- because Yusuf in that precise moment all he wanted was to have Nicolò for himself for a few seconds rather than having to share him with the Old Guard, with world. He wanted a few moments in which Nicolò did not belong to anyone but him.

So he observed him like the ghost he was trained to be. Yusuf saw him run, sweat, laugh, scream, get angry, insult, forget, enjoy, play. And he learned to memorize every line of his figure, his involuntary gestures, the voice that came to him from afar, the expressiveness of his hands and face. That Nicolò was quite different from the Nicky the other ones talked about, the modest and measured Nicky who was always able to think before speaking, who was passionate within a morality and who had loved Yusuf with all the lives they had shared.

The Nicolò that he met that Sunday morning was bursting more intensely than the Sun above. He did not hesitate to call out an opponent, or to disagree with the referee, or even to shout to a teammate. He had mud on his knees five minutes in on having started and did not stop one second to catch his breath. This Nicolò was not a still photograph smiling at him. He was not a story in black and white about all he had done in the past. This Nicolò was extremely real - and therefore somehow unreachable. When the referee blew the whistle at the end of the match and Nicolò disappeared among his teammates to change, Yusuf became absolutely certain that he could not force that man to follow him with promises of eternity. When Yusuf got up and left, he realized that it was impossible to make that man love him as much as he thought he already did.

And Yusuf felt beyond stupid for realizing in that moment and not before that there were two Nicolòs living at the same time - the one who lived in all those soulmates’ stories he had been told about and the one who had been there, in front of him, savoring life and fighting it out under the not at all forgiving September sun of Bergamo.

_\- He will appear, Yusuf. We all have dreamt about him there so don't worry. He'll show up. You just have to keep waiting for him._

_\- I don't know, Andy. I think I should go back now with you and try to help._

_\- Nile is already one of us, Yusuf. So don't worry, we'll manage for now. - He heard her smiling through the phone. - This is something you have to work out between you, it always has been. It takes time for you two to show up, but when you meet, you need each other._

_\- It's... despairing._

_\- As soon as we're done here, we'll come visit you, Yusuf. Have hope._

If he were to be frank with himself he knew lying to Andy was wrong, but he covered it up with a bunch of reasons and excuses that made it all go away. He had been left alone in Bergamo because Nile had just shown up and there was so much to teach her – even though he had met her a couple times now and he undoubtedly thought she was the one who could teach them so many things. Furthermore being three immortals now in the team meant they could manage to do small missions without missing the semi-immortal Yusuf too much. So, well, he had been left alone to make his decisions, and lying to them was the decision he decided to make.

He had not seen Nicolò since the game and he had not dreamt about him again, but every time he closed his eyes he could see that mocking smile telling an opponent to fuck off, the passion of a thousand lives locked up behind that expression of an ocean being about to burst. He had drawn him, again and again and again, with all the colors he had at hand, as if he wanted to get out of his head all the questions he had.

He also had looked for him and, of course, located him. _Filippo._ According to Facebook, Filippo had left Rome six months ago to come to Bergamo. Five months of scarce personal publications leading to a publication of a little restaurant in the old town of Bergamo. _Just opened_. It made sense that Filippo was Roman and it made sense that this Nicolò was a cook. _Cazzo._ It was the last thing they had left to check.

He had devoured all his social media profiles, all full of diverse criticisms and opinions on subjects that Yusuf hardly understood of. There were just a few personal photos and in all of them he was just smiling softly with the same certainty in his eyes Yusuf had seen in the photos he had back in the Guard. No indication that he had a partner - he had looked for that too. From what he had gathered it seemed Filippo had come alone to Bergamo to reopen an old canteen and had ended up joining a local football team – that was it. And, well, that he was a fervent fighter of standing for what it was right.

A few days later he grabbed the courage to go and spy on the canteen from afar. He quickly memorized the simple day schedule of the little restaurant. The comings and goings of people. The hours when Filippo went out to have a smoke with a rag on his shoulder and his look lost in the fields far away. Yusuf immediately recognized the man who brought Filippo freshly-baked bread every day as one of his teammates, who he usually invited to a mid-morning coffee and shared conversations that Yusuf could not hear. All the neighbors greeted him as they passed and he would listen to them with the same serene smile the time they stayed. Filippo seemed to belong to the narrow streets and steep slopes of Bergamo, to the sun peeping through the fields - he seemed to belong to himself and no one else, not even Yusuf.

The thought was tearing Yusuf apart and so he kept lying Andy and the others. He was shattered by the thought that fate was not enough to bring him together with the man who seemed to be one with the wind, the streets, the mud and the flowers. The thought burnt him like fire - that Nicolò might have belonged to him but that Filippo belonged to no one.

Led by a feeling of growing invisibility, of being nobody in Filippo' story, he began to enter the canteen. First, to have just a coffee. After a week, when he realized that Filippo never served the customers and that he spent the time in the back talking to suppliers and neighbors, preparing the food himself and smoking in the courtyard, he began to venture a little further.

He created a new routine to make it seem like it was right if he went there several times a week to eat - always on the same days, always at the same time. And so that there would be no shortage of money and Booker did not start to suspect, he began to help out at the market as he had done in the past - unloading boxes, stacking oranges, small jobs he got payed in the day. He had to watch out for the moment when Filippo would appear to compare the freshness of all the goods and thus disappear into the warehouse to not be uncovered. Yusuf would have looked at him endlessly peeking through the market aisles. He would have watched him restlessly talk to each of the shopkeepers about the fragrances of the honeys or the colors of the peppers, looking around the stalls for the exact spice and inventing a menu almost every day with the products of the day. But Yusuf didn't want to risk being watched and that was the reason why he would disappear in time, being the ghost that he had to be in that city, the ghost he had to be around him.

For the moment, he had to be content with savoring Filippo's soft hands in every bite he took in the little canteen, imagining him with his rag on his shoulder, his apron on his hip and his mind fixed on the kitchen, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

\- Do I know you from somewhere?

Yusuf had given himself exactly one month to remain a ghost before making the decision to tell Andy he had found him. Just one month for him, one month for them.

\- Um, no, I don’t think so.

\- So then why are you following me?

Yusuf had given himself exactly one month to remain a ghost, but when two weeks in Filippo fixed his eyes on him, both hands on Yusuf's table, the apron on, the rag on his shoulder and the light reflecting on his skin, Yusuf knew he could never hide from Nicolò.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! :) I would like to thank you all for the kind love I am receiving <3 It had been a while since I uploaded (or even written) a fanfic so it means a lot to know you are enjoying this story. You are so lovely and I hope you like this new chapter as well :)  
> Cheers again to @[softestark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestark/pseuds/softestark) for being such a cutiepie and having read this chapter and giving me the courage to upload it today!

The first thing he did was say hello.

_\- Do I know you from somewhere?_

_\- Um, no, I don't think so._

_\- So then why are you following me?_

_\- What? I don't even know you._

_\- You come here quite often._

_\- I like it here. I love the food. Should I apologize?_

_\- I've seen you at the market._

_\- I work there._

_\- I've seen you at the games as well._

_\- I do apologize for liking football too then._

_Yusuf was made of thin glass and he deeply believed Filippo could see him through, but he confronted the Italian's gaze with all the strength he was able to muster until the other one let out a sigh framed by a soft smile and walked away towards the kitchen._

_\- Okay, then._

There were small, progressive, daily changes that added to his routines almost imperceptibly. Yusuf kept to his schedule as planned, the same days and hours at the canteen, accepting any day job at the market and going to the Sunday games. He tried his best not to show the slightest hint of all the anticipation he generated to finally seeing Filippo for the seconds of the day their paths intertwined even if it was from a fair distance. The warehouse was always waiting for him when the blond man appeared in the market, he always chose the furthest stands from the pitch he could and the restaurant... well, the chef never seemed to pass through the kitchen’s doors so he had the luxury of observing, of staying, of smelling and feeling him close beyond the door that separated them, having his ears wide open to hear him smoking in the patio.

Yusuf continued with his invariable routines, but he observed that little by little it was being more difficult to avoid him.

He noticed it first at the market. Filippo appeared out of nowhere while he was stacking some boxes or talking to the butcher. Filippo appeared out of nowhere, as if he were a fucking sniper and Yusuf didn't have the time to react and hide, so he had no choice but to smile at him and reply with a smile to the _ciao_ that floated between them and stayed there for hours after he was gone, four letters made of his breath to be slowly treasured.

Then the football matches. Filippo always looked up to the stands searching for him and whenever he found him he would smile and greet him with his hand. Yusuf always answered to that small gesture and found himself cheering him up from afar and maybe shouting a little too loud whenever someone made a fault on him. Filippo laughed each time and it was like the Sun had just burst in front of him - as happy as afraid to have been the one to see it. Yusuf always left before Filippo exited the locker room.

And suddenly that _ciao_ evolved. Filippo appeared as if by magic again and after Yusuf's brief greeting he started asking him about the asparagus, talking about lemons or questioning him about the new stall it had been opened at the market. And Yusuf was caught off guard at first, but soon found himself sharing the _Ahmed-he-once-was_ ’ experience with him about the ripening of the peaches or the freshness of the lettuce. And then there were a few brief seconds when Filippo would remain pensive, as if meditating to tell him something else, but he would drop another simple _ciao_ that would end the exchange and get lost among the swaying of the people.

The second thing he did was cook for him.

_\- You're not Italian._

_\- Very observant._

_\- Don't be an asshole. Where are you from?_

_\- Tunis._

_\- And what did bring you here?_

_\- Fate._

Yusuf noticed it gradually. First, Filippo started to incorporate into the dishes the product they'd been talking about at the market. _Grilled asparagus. Cod with lemon. Roasted peaches._ Secondly, he introduced more Mediterranean dishes into the daily menus. _Hummus and baba ghanoush. Falafel. Tabbule. Lamb. Shakshuka._

\- I know it's more suitable for breakfast.

Filippo never left the kitchens or the backyard. Yusuf usually ate and talked to the waitress and left after he finished his coffee, all the time while feeling Filippo's indiscreet gaze looking past the curtains, constantly evaluating his expression as he ate, the acceptance of his recipes, the words he shared with the people of his restaurant.

That was why it caught him off guard to see him standing beside his table waiting for an answer.

\- I don’t really care. It tastes great.

\- I'm relieved. It's the first time I've ever done it.

\- Well, you’re an amazing cook.

That was the first time Filippo sat down and began to talk to him as if they were old friends. And that was the moment when Yusuf realized he had no longer barriers to prevent the disaster this Italian man had come to make – he was naked and exposed in front of him but strangely he did not want to hide anymore, he wanted to let him see him through. He just wanted to enjoy him and listen to that hoarse voice that was born from the contagious enthusiasm with which Filippo seemed to talk about everyday things.

From then, Filippo always appeared with a broad smile whenever Yusuf entered the canteen as if he was waiting for him. He told him about the first months in Bergamo, about how hard was to get the restaurant started, about the history that the restaurant was leaving behind. He told Yusuf about all those five months he spent preparing the canteen and talking to suppliers, almost without seeing the daylight. He told him about how the baker was the one to make him join the football team, with a plea that was never made because Filippo agreed at the very first moment. He told him about the desire he had had to flee from Rome, about the gastronomic scene there, about the competitiveness, about the desire for recognition. He told him that if he had a little more guts he would like to go and cook for those who had hardly anything to eat.

But mainly he listened to Yusuf talking about his own world. He enjoyed learning about art, music and poetry. Yusuf told him about how beautiful Bergamo was at sunset and about its flowers, and he even told him how invisible he felt among all the Italian quietness.

_\- You're more noticeable than you think, Ahmed._

_\- That's because nothing escapes your eye, Filippo._

Yusuf was Ahmed with Filippo. He kept using that name at the market because it felt right to use his old name and his old passport if needed and his own backstory, so Filippo probably asked his name to the butcher or maybe he caught it from the air and Yusuf never corrected him. He felt as if he were Ahmed again with him.

In fact Yusuf tended to forget about Nicolò and all he saw was Filippo telling him the last gossip he had heard from the butcher. He sometimes forgot about all the stories Andy and Booker had told him about the times the two of them lived through because all he could remember was the stories Filippo told about when he was younger. The ancient stories felt unimportant now and all Yusuf kept thinking was that he had been wrong all along – that this Filippo right in front of him was human and therefore loveable, touchable, reachable. And he wanted to keep him like this – _mortal, loveable, touchable and reachable_ \- for a little longer even if he felt worse every passing day for not having the guts to telling him the truth of why he was really there.

Being with Filippo was as natural as getting up every morning but when Yusuf was alone in his own room he thought he was on a bridge connecting two realities and he felt extremely miserable.

The third thing he did was kiss him.

_\- Lemon- what?_

_-_ Limonaia. _Haven't you ever been to one?_

_\- Like a lemon grove?_

_\- It's something... more special than that. Are you working tomorrow?_

_\- I may not._

_\- I'll pick you up here at eleven then._

It was a Wednesday when they went to the Lago di Garda. Several weeks had passed from Yusuf’s initial plan of telling Filippo everything, but after getting to know him he felt the temporal structure was dissipating into an eternity that once belonged to them. Winter was beginning and the mountains surrounding them were starting to melt into the clouds. Filippo was driving unrecognizably for a Roman driver and Yusuf could not stop thinking about the feeling of protection that always filled him whenever he was with the other man, that distant knowledge that nothing will ever harm him if Filippo was near. It was the first time they had left Bergamo together and there was only silence broken by Umberto Tozzi music coming from the radio singing a thousand things they could not say in words.

They visited a _limonaia_ run by a small family who had inherited the business for generations. They learnt about the History of the lemon groves at the North of Italy and they tasted and bought some jams which they put in the trunk before deciding to go for a walk to the nearest town. They stopped midway, approached the railing and watched the lake. Filippo was telling him about the _pasta al limone_ when Yusuf realized for the umpteenth time how hopelessly in love he was with him.

\- Are you going to do it or not?

\- What?

\- Kiss me.

\- Pardon?

\- Ahmed, focus.

\- I didn't know if you... if we like, if you...

\- Why else would I bring you to the Garda?

\- I never thought you’d order me to kiss you.

Filippo laughed, taking a step towards him and Yusuf felt his hands claiming his place on his hips. He let him.

\- I didn’t know how else to do it.

Kissing him felt organic. Like the _limonaias_ waiting patiently to grow lemons. Like the peaceful waters reflecting the Sun. Kissing him felt the most right thing to do in the world, as if he was returning home after a very long journey and had just realized as he walked through the door how tired he was and how relieved he was to finally take off his shoes.

\- You taste like lemon.

\- And you taste like the moon in all this darkness, Filippo.

The fourth thing he did was invite Yusuf to his house.

_\- Oh, cazzo!_

_\- What was that?_

_\- I dropped the wine you brought. Sorry, Ahmed. Do you mind going down and buying one while I clean this up? Dinner's ready._

The streetlights lit up the city dimly, and Yusuf buckled his jacket to the icy wind that blew through the avenues. Yusuf knew more about wine than a teetotaler should and another bottle of the wine rested on his arm while he returned to Filippo’s flat. Even if he did not drink alcohol he enjoyed watching Filippo taste the lost flavors in a glass of wine, looking for the notes that few palates could obtain and smiling with him when he managed to discern them all.

It was not too late, but the darkness spoke of silent promises that were to happen that night. Of keep finding the way home, step by step. Yusuf was unusually uneasy, as if anticipating all that might happen and all that might not. He felt strangely uneasy but knew that as soon as he saw Filippo and as soon as the night turned into the two of them, all doubts and worries would be scattered in the air and they would be left alone again in the world, in space, in time.

Yusuf opened the door with the keys that Filippo had given him before leaving. The first thing that surprised him was the intoxicating smell of wine.

\- Leave the bottle on that table, Yusuf. Don’t let it fall again or we would all end up drunk.

The second thing that struck him was Filippo's intense gaze directed to him – he was tied to a chair. The third thing was to see Andy against a table, Booker in an armchair and the curious look of Nile trying to anticipate everything that was about to happen.

\- Just like in 1416, Yusuf. Why do you always do this?

The fourth thing that paralyzed him was knowing that he had been on a bridge between two realities and it had just collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next two chapters are on their way but I may need some more days to figure it out the best ending to this story, so sorry if I make you wait a little but it will not be long.  
> Thank you so much for reading it - it means the world to me! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I am back on track :) Sorry for the wait. I knew something was missing between chapters and finally I came up with this that I do think gives everything some kind of estructure. Hope you like it!!  
> Thank you so so much for the kind words - they mean the world to me right now :)  
> Again, thank you to @[softestark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestark/pseuds/softestark) for being such a cutie, and to @[lobazul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobazul/pseuds/lobazul) and @[Mereth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mereth/pseuds/Mereth) for being so supportive. Truly happiness for being sharing this with you ♡♡♡ Go check their profiles because they are so worth it!!

Filippo could not remember the last time he had not felt exhausted.

He was the son of the chaos of Rome, its bustle, its cars, its streets and its labyrinths. Filippo had always been just a tiny voice in the concert that it was Rome, a son of Rome, eclipsed by it, an anonymous shadow amidst the glow of beauty, solemnity and gold. He had been born to be tired, a step behind all deadlines and the clock on his wrist tattooed on his mind. He never learnt to cope with the unbearable feeling of always being late, late, _late_ \- even if after all those years he had learnt to live tired, to live continuously in a constant race with an uncertain goal or an unknown enemy, he struggled with the feeling of always being late to his own life.

He had to admit that before all that tiredness there was God. Being born to a very Italian wealthy family, his initial encounter with religion was familiar – through all his childhood there was always a chair for God at dinner every evening, words to Him before falling asleep, and faith of guidance when life was steep. God was a constant in his early life, a way of placing Filippo in the world, of giving hope a name of its own. Filippo needed Him for lining up the amalgam of questions that appeared in his head every time he closed his eyes, because to him God was silence in the bustle of Rome, He was the opacity in the brightness of those streets and He was a way of finding himself in the anonymity of a city that never gave him a name.

In his early years of adolescence he was quite convinced that he wanted to pursue a career in Theology and dedicate his life to the quiet life of a monastery. Being a monk and grew his own vegetables seemed pretty nice, and all he wanted was to dedicate his life to meditation, study and, above all, to silence. But as years went by Filippo realized he was not made for meditation, study or silence, and so his head gradually began to fill with a swarm of ideas, thoughts and emotions that became increasingly difficult to calm down with the word of the God he once knew.

Filippo was the last son of an Italian wealthy family, but he was the son of Rome as well, of its bustle and its streets. He was the son of its radiance, but also of its precariousness. After meeting tons of people in his way of spreading God’s word and helping the needed, he realized he was made of Rome so he was made of all the immigration that inhabited its streets, of the conversations with strangers for alms, he was made of habited corners and families that poorly made ends meet. Filippo was in his late years of adolescence when he came across with the thought that there were a thousand religions that inhabited the minds and hearts of Rome, a thousand ways of seeing the world and of loving and caring, and every time he got closer to the God he believed in, he was more and more separated from the golden churches he could have been son of once.

In that realization, exhaustion began. Filippo turned out to be the failed son of a wealthy family - always quiet, always angry, always _tired_ , constantly on the streets listening and talking to strangers, and coming home with a split lip after another protest for a lost cause he deeply believed in. In an attempt to redirect his life following a vocation that had accompanied him all his life, his family paid for him to study cooking at a prestigious school of Rome. Filippo turned to the heat of the stove and the edge of the knives in order to redirect his anger, working overtime at any restaurant that accepted him to silence his thoughts – noise to hide the entire bustle.

That was how Filippo found himself immersed in a race against time in the Roman culinary scene, a constant battle of competitiveness and daily quarrels in which there was never a clear winner but plenty of losers. Filippo lived constantly with sweat on his forehead and his wristwatch five minutes forward, because he was always late, late, _late_. He had no time anymore to think about God and religion. He had no time to think about himself, about the thoughts in his mind, about the feeling of having been born for more.

But then one dawn fate reclaimed him. He dreamt of a man - he dreamt of _him_. He dreamt of the moon seeping through the other man’s bedroom window, falling on the curls that lay on a thin pillow. He dreamt of the calm sound of his breath, of his chest peacefully taking in air, of his quiet lips returning the air to the fair darkness of his room. He even dreamt of his smell, and he found himself raising his own hand to reach him, to touch his lips with his fingers, because Filippo at that moment inhabited the same room, the same mattress, the same dream.

When Filippo woke up, he wondered if he had dreamt of God.

He then decided to leave Rome and take a small restaurant in Bergamo, owned by one of his former cooking teachers who had been insisting him for months to build there the canteen he had always wanted to have but which the commotion of Rome had always forbidden him to dream. He then went alone to an unknown city, with steep streets and extensive meadows, with the promise of silence after spending whole days locked up in offices to make agreements with decorators and suppliers even if his predecessor had left it all pretty much in place. And every night, when he closed his eyes, he wished to meet him again, to feel his breath on his cheeks, to feel one more time the serenity that fill him when he thought about his figure, his breath and his smell.

There were times when he dreamt of other people too, but those persons rarely slept in his dreams. He dreamt of a woman who took long walks alone at night, and usually stopped in the middle of his walk and looked at him with a challenging expression even if he was aware that she did not know he was there. Other times he dreamt of another man, usually lying on an armchair, with a cup between his fingers, a football match and music from the last century on, and his gaze lost somewhere in an infinite to which Filippo sensed he would never have access.

He dreamt of them the same bizarrely realistic way he dreamt of the man with the curls. Sometimes he dreamt of all four at once –lately he dreamt with another cheerful girl too-, and those times they were eating and laughing, or walking through vast deserts in camouflage clothing, switching English to another foreign languages he could not understand. Filippo always woke up with the feeling of having been at home.

These dreams accompanied him through the six months he was finishing things up at the restaurant, feeling he had someone to return to. He slowly carved a life in Bergamo and when he opened the doors of his restaurant one day in August, he found himself greeting the neighbours and smiling to the butcher and being part of the local league team, so it seemed that the son of Rome was no more and he already belonged to the streets of Bergamo. He thanked the four people in his dreams for smoothing the way.

And then when life started to keep quiet, he saw _him_ – the man with dark curls was there standing on a narrow street of the old Bergamo, near his canteen, for a brief second and then he disappeared. Filippo thought he was delirious, and even though the noise in his head shouted as never it had, he convinced him that he did not really see him... until he started to see him everywhere – at the soccer stands, or stacking apples in the market, or even in his own restaurant ordering a black coffee with a beautiful Italian accent from beyond the sea.

Filippo’s head was an avenue of Rome at rush hour, with thoughts trying to manoeuvre to get ahead of each other and make him doubt more and more about his own mental stability.

At first, time froze whenever Filippo saw that man and he held his own breath as if he was seeing a ghost that the rest of Humanity was deprived of seeing, but gradually he relaxed. It took him a few days to understand that the man was not a product of his own imagination and it took him a day of true unbelief and devotion to know he did not have Christ before him. He saw him coming and going and appearing and disappearing, but he also saw him greeting some people and others, and gradually he understood that somehow the man –Ahmed- that he dreamt of with since months ago, was a living human being that happened to work at Bergamo’s central market. _Somehow._

Paradoxically, what offered him more sanity was to continue dreaming about the other three persons, because it made clear to him that those realistic dreams existed in a bizarre and consistent way, offering him the reassurance that at some past moment he dreamt about the man that he had now daily before him.

And then he realized that Ahmed was where Filippo should be, and so that it was time for him to find out who was the responsible of sending the man to him – God, fate, or his parents to know his whereabouts. He could not decide which answer frightened him more.

_\- Do I know you from somewhere?_

So he confronted him for being his shadow and in the surprised face of Ahmed Filippo found his own doubts - could it be true that he wasn't following him and it was all a coincidence? A message from God to follow? He neither could nor wanted to believe it. That night the memory of his opened eyes staring at him haunted him for hours and Filippo calmed his anxiety, his fire and his devotion with the image of his face on his mind, mixing dreams and reality. Maybe that was really how it was supposed to pray to God.

_\- You're not Italian._

He became the one who sought him out, who spoke to him. And he treasured absolutely all his words, because Ahmed seemed to speak in verse constantly, making poetry out of all the subjects they dealt with, and he had the ability of stopping the world every time they sat down to chat in a restaurant that had been nothing but the means that God, fate or life had set up to put Ahmed on his path.

_\- Are you going to do it or not?_

He felt irremediably in love with him. And he kissed him under the sun, let the heavens see them, he kissed him and felt as someone who finally fell asleep after a hard long day. He ceased to be tired for the first time in years, and his head became completely silent again just like when there was only God and him. He felt for the first time in his life that he was where he needed to be at the right time and that the future gave him a break to take a deep breath.

\- Who is Yusuf, Ahmed?

Filippo had his eyes fixed on Ahmed, and he was angry at himself for feeling the first tears already filling his own eyes. Surrounding him were the fierce woman, the lost looking man, and the sharp-eyed girl who had replaced Ahmed in his dreams. When he saw them for the first time, his body had let out a sigh of safety that lasted as long as it took them to tie him to a chair. 

\- Who the fuck is Yusuf, Ahmed?

Filippo had never really stopped believing in God, so when he was overcome for the first time in his life with a great wave of hopelessness and abandonment he could only close his eyes and feel his chest split in two.

He felt extremely exhausted again.


End file.
